Unplottable

29 -Sirius

The hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks until it seemed pointless to check off the days on his list anymore: They had been caged there for months. Sirius knew imprisonment, knew it better than he knew life itself, it seemed, but it still weighed heavily on him. Always the same room, confined by the same walls, containing the same bed, dresser, table, bookshelf, television, outdated computer and chessboard; always the same shower and toilet cubicle, the same window, showing them grey buildings and a grey sky. There was nothing beyond this, no world outside, just like in that poem about the panther Sirius had found in a tattered volume of poetry on the bookshelf.

Of course, this time he wasn't alone in his imprisonment; this time he had Remus with him. It was good to be close to his friend. Yet Remus was passive and depressed; killing the Minister of Magic had taken its toll on him. Sirius tried his best to cheer him up; he read to him, challenged him to chess matches, and played through the first two parts of a computer game called Monkey Island with him. Sometimes, he could make his friend laugh a little, but he could not deny that Remus was not quite himself any more. Most of his time he spent staring into nothingness. Sirius himself did not feel much better; he found their imprisonment depressing, and on top of that, his nightmares of Azkaban had returned with full force, turning their imprisonment of the present into his imprisonment of the past. He tried to keep all this to himself, smothering his own outcries with his pillow if he could: Remus was lying right beside him at night, and Sirius did not want to disturb his friend's few hours of sleep.

Oddly enough, the only time when Remus still seemed to be the friend Sirius had cherished all his life, the time when Sirius himself felt best, was during the time of the full moon. Deprived of Wolfsbane Potion, Remus turned into a ferocious, blood-thirsty werewolf for about three nights and two days each month. There was no choice for Sirius but to transform into a dog for these days and to keep his friend company in his animal shape. Laying side by side, their sharp-teethed snouts almost touching, they seemed to share an understanding that went beyond words. Padfoot knew the slightest of his wolf companion's movements by heart; every flicking of Moony's large, attentive ears, each swish of his tail, each low growl in his throat brought him close to happier times of his life. Together, the dog and the wolf sat in front of the barred window, looking out at drab, grey tenant houses and office buildings, wishing to be outside, to run as fast as their strong limbs permitted them, to chase, to hunt, to kill their prey. True, Sirius had never killed anything bigger than a rabbit, but now more than ever he felt he hated enough to kill. He wanted out. He wanted to be free. Knowing that running headfast into the confining door wouldn't help, he wished for a chance to take revenge on his prison guards with a ferocity that almost rivalled his hatred for Peter Pettigrew. On top of that, he was angry at himself.

How could they have been so stupid? They had run into Romulus Lupin at the airport, probably by chance, right after they had transformed back into themselves in an airport toilet. While they had been discussing where to go next, a stranger had knocked on Remus' shoulder. Recognizing him as the spitting image of Remus immediately, they had been eager to talk to the unknown American wizard. Romulus had invited them to his small apartment somewhere in the less fancy areas of huge, unknown New York; he had promised them a place to sleep and had offered them food and drink. Both Remus and Sirius had been glad to accept the offer, only to fall into a deep sleep at Romulus' apartment, a sleep from which they had not awakened until they had been brought into the very room of their imprisonment. Of the great, famous city they had seen virtually nothing; they could not really say where they had been imprisoned all this time, only that the doors were locked with magic and guarded by unknown people. While unconscious, they had been de-wanded, which put them even more at disadvantage. Their guards did not usually communicate with them, but provided the barest necessities to a cat flap so small that even Padfoot could not escape through it. Daily, Remus and Sirius were brought food and drink, sometimes a Muggle newspaper or a few changes of freshly washed clothes. As long as they cooperated, they were not harmed, but there seemed no chance for them to escape their prison, either.

Worst of all, they knew that with their cooperation, they were harming Hogwarts and Dumbledore, and most likely, helping the Death Eaters' side. However, there seemed little they could do. When they had been questioned about the present situation at Hogwarts by Romulus and three hooded figures, they had refused to talk. Then one of the hooded figures had magically caused Sirius pain - not with a Cruciatus curse, just a couple of painful blasts. Sirius had even managed not to scream out, but the pain must have showed, because Remus had cracked at once. Sirius wished his friend had been less sensitive; from that point on, their prison guards had known where their weak spot lay: If they wanted one of them to cooperate, all they had to do was threaten the other one. Sirius knew it was wrong to give these people information, because they were probably Death Eaters. Most of all, he knew it was wrong to tell Varlerta and Harry over the phone that everything was alright, that he was looking for Wormtail in New York, and that Remus had returned to Hogwarts. He felt very guilty about complying with his prison guards' demands. If they had tortured him, he prided himself in thinking he would have remained steadfast. However, one look at Remus, weakened in body and spirit by the consequences of the Ice Missile curse, told him he could not bear it to see him tortured. He wished he could escape and take revenge on Romulus Lupin, could tell the world he was a spy, could undo the wrongs the two of them were supporting with their compliance. However, here in this prison, there was nothing he could do. They were wandless and outnumbered, imprisoned and weakened by the fact that they cared for each other. They were, he thought bitterly, tools in their enemies' hands.

Huddling on the bed, staring into the nothingness beyond the running television, Sirius and Remus were spending the morning of yet another endless day in their prison. Remus was apathetic, his head resting limply on Sirius shoulder. Sirius put an arm around his shoulders.

"I wish it was full moon," he murmured, knowing that in spite of its glorious tradition, the sentence was so washed-out that it hardly meant anything anymore. Remus didn't reply. His head seemed to grow heavier on Sirius' shoulder.

"I wish we could go for a run in the moonlight - on paws," Sirius continued, inwardly cringing at being so predictable. Remus didn't comment. He didn't look up to a run.

They sat in silence for another while, unwatching shows about Muggle schools and about zoo animals unwilling to breed in captivity, unwatching the Muggle morning news. There was no news of the wizard world. The weather forecast for March 29^th, 1997, bore no special relevance to them; they would get no chance to go out and feel sunshine or taste rain, anyway.

Suddenly, something like a shockwave ran through Remus' body. He sat up straight and turned his head as if looking for something. His nostrils flared slightly; for a moment, Sirius was reminded of a wolf sniffing the wind. Slightly afraid that this strange alertness of his sick friend might mean a new outbreak of the curse, Sirius followed him to the window.

"There is something going on at Hogwarts," Remus whispered. Despite his apprehensions, Sirius felt a strange happiness at seeing the energy in his eyes, an energy he had missed for a long, long time.

"They have brewed a panacea," Remus continued softly, "a panacea for me. It is calling me." With intense longing, he stared out of the window. "I only need to receive it to be cured."

Sirius had barely heard of panaceas and did not know exactly how they worked, but he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Remus' condition had improved already. Turning to him, Remus' smile mirrored his own. Sirius laid his palm on his friend's arm, a meaningless gesture he had repeated many times in the last months. Somehow, Remus' skin seemed warmer than before; through the cloth of his sleeve, Sirius could feel that his friend was alive, and very much so.

"It is strange," Remus said, holding Sirius' gaze. "I have no idea why I should know such a thing, but I am absolutely sure that there is a panacea waiting for me at Hogwarts, and that it will cure me of my curse. I've never been much of a seer, as you well remember, so I don't know how I've come to know this."

Remembering how all four of them, even James the Head Boy, had performed remarkably moderately in Divination class because of an utter lack of the Second Sight, Sirius grinned. "Do you mean you had your first vision?" he asked.

Remus shook his head. "It wasn't something I saw, rather something I felt - or did I maybe hear it?" He frowned in concentration; then he shook his head. "I'm not sure - but I'm positive that I didn't just imagine it."

Strange as it sounded, Sirius was completely convinced. He put both arms around his friend and pulled him close. "I know, Moony, I know," he replied. "And do you know why I know this? It shows."

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As far as outside circumstances were concerned, their imprisonment had not changed. They were still locked in, still confined to the same narrow space of books, television and computer games, to the food wordlessly offered to them through the cat-flap, to their isolation from the world outside. Still, with Remus feeling better, everything was easier to bear. Now Sirius' attempts to make his friend laugh were no longer in vain. Now both of them were sharing stories, making up plans for a glorious escape (useless as these plans were), even keeping up a daily routine of exercises to make up for their lack of physical mobility. Remus had regained his ability to beat Sirius in chess, so both made good use of the only magical item which they had been granted in their cell.

When Sirius had another nightmare about Azkaban a couple of days later, he let Remus comfort him in his arms. It felt good to be held, to be soothed by kind words. For the first time in his life, Sirius told Remus what it had really been like in Azkaban, told him more than the few sentences he usually used to pack his personal terror into a few neat, syntactical boxes. Maybe he had talked to nobody that way before; maybe nobody had listened to him that way before. Somehow, in spite of his own sufferings, or maybe because of them, it seemed that Remus could take whatever horror spilled out of Sirius. Perhaps for the first time, Sirius felt he didn't have to hold back the worst of his experience, because it would hurt the listener too much to see his pain so clearly: He didn't have to protect Remus from the truth, because lying to his friend would have been worse than telling the truth. They talked through the night; when Sirius finally fell asleep, he felt calm, as if his soul had been cleansed.

The next day, over a game of chess they had up to that point played in almost complete silence, Remus asked about Varlerta. Did Sirius think of her a lot? Did he miss her? Did he long for her?

Sure, Sirius missed her and longed for her, and so he told Remus. It was true; from time to time he thought of Varlerta, feeling an emotional and also a physical need for her nearness. In these cases, he usually got himself a bit of privacy in the shower cubicle, a privacy Remus had always respected without a comment. As the months had passed, these incidents had occurred less and less frequently. He did not tell Remus this, however; he only said that sure, he missed his lover, and left it at that, nudging his knight forwards to do battle with Remus' queen.

In the afternoon, there was a phone-call from Varlerta, a rare occurrence as it was. Sirius knew that no phone could work from Hogwarts, that she had to drive to a nearby Muggle village to use a phone booth. Still, while talking to her, he suddenly wondered why she didn't call more often. So far, her phone calls had been a threat to him; he had always longed to tell her the truth, and had found keeping up Romulus Lupin's construction of lies difficult. The thought of not being able to give her the very necessary warning about the spy at Hogwarts had always quite spoilt the pleasure of talking to her; all he really needed to tell her, he had to keep quiet. That day, he found lying to her much easier. Although he had not forgotten that it was his duty to warn her and everybody else of Romulus Lupin, he knew now that there was no way he could. She was in one world, and he was in another. There was no way he could risk Remus' new-found well-being by telling her the truth while the prison guards were listening in.

That evening, both sat up long, letting the room fall into darkness as a red and lilac sunset faded into a grey dust. Neither turned on the light to get himself a book; neither suggested any kind of activity. In silence, they watched the sky change colour, watched it turn into an inky blackness. When it was pitch-dark, Remus rose and undressed for bed, turning his back to Sirius in an uncharacteristic prudishness. Sirius heard rather than saw him slip under his cover.

There was no point in staying up any longer, Sirius told himself, although he felt a certain, inexplicable apprehension. He took off his jeans and sweatshirt and stripped off the rest of his clothes like he had done every night; then he slipped under his own cover. Suddenly it seemed strange to him that Remus and he should sleep in the same bed. Their closeness, the very normality of it, suddenly turned into an oddity. His back to his friend, Sirius listened to Remus' even breathing, counting the seconds between inhaling and exhaling, and adjusted his own breathing to it. He knew Remus wasn't sleeping. For a long, long while he listened to Remus pretending to sleep, sharing his wakefulness.

"You are not sleeping," he said at last.

"Neither are you," Remus retorted, his voice soft and low in the darkness.

Sirius turned around. It was too dark to see more than a crude outline of Remus' head and shoulders, but he could feel a slight hint of his breath on his face. Neither of them spoke or moved. The time seemed to stand still. Unease grew in Sirius. For some absurd reason, he felt an acute, physical need to spend some time alone in the shower, but at the same time, he could not bring himself to move a single limb.

The moon rose. In a few nights it would be full. A shimmer of it caught the tips of Remus' hair and the outline of his biceps. Sirius knew his own face was visible now, while Remus' face lay in the shadow. He closed his eyes.

The touch was so slight he might have imagined it, lighter than a feather, but not half as tickling. He smiled in the darkness, hearing his breath quicken in synchrony with another. Gently and slowly, very, very slowly, Remus ran a finger along the length of Sirius' arm. For a moment, the finger lingered on the back of Sirius' hand, a spot of warmth in the darkness. When it was taken away, Sirius strangely longed for it to return, but he did not dare to open his eyes, to talk or to move. The blood was throbbing in his ears, mirroring a quickened heartbeat or maybe the blood rush of desire.

Something was tugging ever so slightly at his scalp; Remus must be playing with strands of his hair, Sirius realised, more precisely, with strands of hair resting on the pillow. Knowing that he was being touched, but in a place where he could not feel it, was way too strange for Sirius. He opened his eyes. As if burnt or scalded, Remus' fingers withdrew from his pillow like flashes of lightning. Sirius stared at the dark outline of his face.

"I'm sorry," Remus whispered. There was desperation in his voice. Abruptly, he got up, pushing the covers aside, heading for the door. Although Remus was obviously trying to keep his backside to the bed, Sirius could clearly see that he was suffering from the same physical condition as Sirius, something he obviously meant to conceal.

"Moony!" His own outcry almost scared Sirius.

Slowly, Remus turned. His body, the outline of his desire, shone in the moonlight.

"Come here," Sirius said hoarsely.

Remus walked back to the bed and sat down next to Sirius. He was trembling.

"You are cold," Sirius whispered. Then, with quivering, clumsy fingers he lifted his cover so Remus could slip under it.

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The next morning, Sirius woke to find himself alone in the bed. He buried his head in his pillow, replaying scenes from the night in his head, disturbing scenes, scenes burning like fire in his body. "I've always wanted you - always," that's what Moony had whispered to him, his face buried in Sirius' collarbone, their bodies an entanglement of heat. Remembering the feeling of skin on skin, Sirius felt elated and terrified at the same time. How could it have come to that? How could these things have happened between him and Moony? Was he gay now?

Suddenly he wished he did not have to face Remus now. He wished he could have some time alone to sort things out. However, in the narrow confinement of their cage, there was no hiding place.

Sirius raised his head and looked around. Remus was huddling on the sofa, hugging his legs, not looking at him. Never, not even after killing Fudge under the influence of the curse, had Moony looked so forlorn. Did he feel as confused as Sirius?

He rose, showered and dressed, avoiding the sight of Remus, afraid of what he would see. "I've always wanted you - always." Years, decades of friendship had changed their meaning with that sentence. Sirius felt as if a part of his life had been stolen from him, maybe the best part of it.

There was no way he could avoid him any longer, no way he could sit down with a book, let alone eat the breakfast that had been provided for them through the cat flap. Awkwardly, Sirius collapsed on the sofa, at last looking at the bloodless face of his friend, his overshadowed eyes and raw-looking cheeks.

"Sirius, my friend, I will never forgive myself," Remus whispered, staring at his long, finely chiselled fingers. Memories clouded Sirius' vision - the hand of an eleven-year old Remus, holding a wand with slight apprehension, the fingers of a sixteen-year old Remus, buried in the fur of a large, shaggy dog. He had always harboured a secret, strange fascination with Moony's beautiful hands.

"There's nothing to forgive," Sirius replied quietly, fighting to keep his voice even. "It's not like you did something to me without my -" his voice almost faltered, "consent."

"Do you hate me now?" Remus asked, for the first time meeting Sirius' gaze. For all his fear, his was a gaze with spine; a gaze that told of the grief had born, and would bear, without much complaint.

Mutely, Sirius shook his head. For a long time, none of them spoke.

"So - do you want me to sleep on the sofa from now on?" Remus inquired. Was there a trace of mischief in his eyes? Sirius wasn't quite sure.

"No," he replied.

"In the shower cubicle, then?" Remus asked. There was definitely laughter in his eyes now.

Sirius couldn't quite grasp what was so funny about all of this, except for that it was. He had to fight to keep his face straight.

"No, I don't want you to sleep in the shower cubicle, Moony," he replied.

Now positively grinning, Remus threw a cushion at Sirius. "Poor Padfoot. How could this happen to the world's greatest homophobe?"